


A Different Ending

by Fallen_King



Category: The Great Gatsby
Genre: Guess who the party's for now, I mean, M/M, Nick is touch starved, Now look where we are, Panic attacks are never fun, This was only ever supposed to be one part, going into a fourth one y’all, natsby - Freeform, so is Gatsby but he won’t admit that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-05-10 07:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14732237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallen_King/pseuds/Fallen_King
Summary: In which Gatsby doesn't die.





	1. Chapter 1

It was after Gatsby had been shot, after Tom and Daisy had left their reckless carnage, and Jordan had informed me of her dislike of my dishonesty- after I had come to terms of the unutterable, undeniable fact that I am deeply in love with Jay Gatsby. It was not until everything appeared to be crumbling, the very fabric of what I had once known to be true was fraying, that I accepted the realization I had so vehemently dispelled from my mind countless times prior. Jay Gatsby had been shot in the chest, yet it felt as if the bullet had torn through my own flesh.

I did not see him for three weeks. Each day was agonizing, a lifetime of not knowing whether he had fallen victim to some unfortunate tragedy or if the wound he had sustained was healing as it should. It seemed that no matter who I asked, nobody held the answers. In those three weeks Jay Gatsby was as much of a mystery of to me, as when he was but a name to lavish parties and extensive wealth. His mansion, once crowded with the rich, now sat desolate as the gardens wilted to the oncoming autumn.

It was a chilled evening when a semblance of life was returned to Gatsby’s residence. A crisp uneasiness floated amongst the breeze, taking my attention and turning it forth to the shadow of a figure lingering on the steps to my neighbors entrance. For a moment I believed that my eyes had deceived me, that a phantom had played tricks with my mind. But as the outline disappeared, stealing with it any doubt I may have held, my head felt dizzy. My heart beat so loud I was sure he could hear it as I ran across the lawn. The front door was left open, the only source of light in the dusty house. A film blanketed all surfaces, filling the air as I shuffled forward. And there he was, standing amongst the dust in a lavender suit. And I tried to speak, but found the words stuck in my throat as my heart momentarily stopped. I must have made some sort of noise, for Gatsby turned with an almost startled expression. A smile crossed his face, drawing me in as he made his way down the stairs.

“It’s good to see you, Old Sport.” He spoke softly, as if nervous he were going to scare me off. All I could muster was a small nod, mind still reeling at the sight of him. “You look well,” he continued, as if sensing my hesitancy.

“A-as do you,” I managed, gaining my composure and bringing up a hand. Gatsby pushed it aside, pulling me towards him both mentally and physically. His scent enveloped me, arms encompassing my body, and I once again found my mind drifting to the fancies of my heart. Though I returned the affectionate gesture, it was accompanied by the dull ache of unrequited longing. It seemed that without him, it was all so wonderfully bleak. There were no more extravagant parties, no drunken strangers, or inconvenient car trips to New York. Though peaceful, it was all so empty. Yet, it was almost worse to have him- or rather, to not  _ have _ him. Here he was, standing right before me, yet it felt as if he were miles away… Or perhaps, if I were miles away, watching from some incomprehensible distance. It all felt so terribly lonesome, to be here, but also there.

“Are you alright?” Gatsby asked. I could tell that there was more that he wanted to say, about Daisy, about Myrtle and George, about the unforeseeable future that spanned before the both of us. And I found myself whispering out a truth I was not sure I wanted him to know.

“I-I’m not sure- I, uh, mean well, I think I am, but…” The uneven thread hung in the air, uncertainty lingering between us. I could not bring myself to look at him then, the emotion welling within was overbearing and I set my jaw, teeth clenched against unspoken confessions.  _ I love you, Jay Gatsby, I love you, I love you, I love you. And it hurts more than anything else in the world. I-I just don't want to lose you. And I'm terribly, horribly, tremendously scared. _

“Nick?” I bite my tongue, a faint metallic taste filling my mouth, but the shaking of my inhaling breath betrays me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp out, hands covering my mouth to hold back my sobs. Gatsby tries to meet my teary eyes, but I do not let him. His hand brushes my arm and I choke, wanting nothing more than to sink below the ground and disappear from this awful scene.

“Nick, Old Sport,” he tries again, hand closing around my bent elbow. I allow him to lead me to the stairs; he doesn't remove his grasp even after we have sat on the dust covered steps.

“Y-you’ll get your suit dirty,” I hiccup, once my breathing has calmed. He stares at me, expression unreadable and shakes his head slightly.

“Are you alright?” His voice is honey.

“Just a tad bit overwhelmed,” I murmur, “these past few weeks have been, well, rough to say the least.” He falls silent, letting his hand slip from my elbow. When I look at him, he is lost, gazing off into something unknown.

“I was worried about you.” My tentative words draw him back to the present and he flicks his eyes to the ground. There is something sad in those blue depths, a concealed anguish. For what, I am uncertain. But when he shifts those star-filled eyes to me, it is gone- hidden behind lavish clothes and extravagant gestures. And he smiles that lovely smile.

“Say, Old Sport, why don't I throw a party tomorrow night.”


	2. Chapter 2

I do not sleep that night. Instead I find my eyes drifting across the very plain, very boring ceiling, and the slates of moonlight that filter through the fluttering curtains. Through the drowsy haze I can see Gatsby’s mansion; an everlasting symbol to the ache in my chest, an immortal reminder to the love I am unable to claim. I watch as its enormity glows in the rising sun, casting a great shadow on the abandoned lawn. I watch until the wind has faded and no longer do the desires of my heart plague themselves with the sights of longings cause. Heaving a weary sigh I push myself from my bed, going down to the kitchen.

 

The food I find is distasteful, bland and disinteresting. There is no comfort in the small building that is my home. The clothes that I dress in, a pale pink shirt tucked into black pants held up by suspenders, feel stuffy and ill-fitted. They make me shift uncomfortably until I hear a knock at the door, which causes my motion to cease. After a moment of silence it persists. With caution in my steps I leave the security of my bedroom. Upon instinct my hand reaches for the nearest object that may be used as a weapon. As I am crossing the threshold the front door opens, and my arm raises.

 

“Old Sport?” A sweet voice calls.

 

“Gatsby?” I release a breath and step into view. His eyes connect with mine for but a second before drifting down. A perplexion overtakes his features and I frown.

 

“What is it?” I ask, stepping towards him. I long to reach out, to feel the fabric of his white shirt beneath my fingertips, to run my hands through his delicately gelled hair and see the scowl on his face as his perfection unravels at a touch. I long to caress his face, feel his warmth, and bask in his endearment. I long to find happiness within him, not the bemused friendliness that he projects as words flow forth from his upturned lips.

 

“Were…” he cuts off, as if carefully contemplating his next words, “were you going to protect yourself with that?” He questions, gesturing vaguely to the “weapon” still clutched in my hand. A wave of embarrassment floods my system and I turn briskly, returning the pillow in my hand to the couch that it came from. From behind I can hear Gatsby approaching.

 

“You look nice,” he comments, “is there a special occasion?”

As I face him, a hand moves up to my suspenders. He gives a small nod, as if allowing me approval. My mind begins to wander at the gentleness of his touch, and my knees feel weak. He snaps the black strip and I find myself falling, both physically and mentally. The soft cushions catch me, but I wish it were Gatsby.

 

“Jay,” I whisper, nearly inaudible. I am unable to stop myself. My hands clench the fabric on my thighs and I force my eyes away from his curious ones. “What brought you here?” I manage, clearing my throat. He lands beside me with a soft thud, head tilted back to gaze at the ceiling. I reach over and move a strand of loose hair back into its place. He blinks, as if in surprise, and hums out an answer,

 

“My mansion is being prepared for the party tonight. I left in order to give them adequate space.”

 

 _Space_ , I muse, a smiling playing on my lips, “That mansion has so much space, I doubt one person would make a difference.”

Gatsby is positively silent, staring at me from the corners of his eyes. He feigns annoyance, lips pressed into a thin line. Though his body language tells otherwise, Gatsby cannot hide the mirth in his eyes. And I cannot help the melancholy feeling that washes over me. My eyes falter, casting themselves down. Gatsby is so close, I yearn to reach out, to declare his existence within this moment. But I fear the repercussions, so I do not. Gatsby, fearless, brilliant Gatsby, does; his hand rests on my shoulder, sturdy and comforting… And I melt.

 

“One person can make all the difference,” he murmurs, a vulnerability in his earnestness. I am overwhelmed with emotion, so much so that I try to stand, but find myself unable to move. Gatsby must see it in my face, for his grip tightens and he offers a smile.

 

“Why don't we take a boat out?” I nod at the proposition and he shifts his hand to my wrist, hauling my body up. I stumble, grabbing onto Gatsby for balance. He looks down at me, my face pressed awkwardly against his chest. I linger for just a pause too long and he notices. He tilts his head curiously as I shuffle away, nervously running my hands throughout my hair. Though he does not speak, I am acutely aware that there is something he itches to say. As we walk from my house, along the beachside, and down his dock, it is in unfitting silence. I bump against his shoulder, drawing his attention.

 

“You seem as if you have something to say.”

 

“I feel as if I do,” he responds, leading the way onto his boat. But Gatsby does not speak again, not until we are floating in the wake of rolling blue waves, and I find myself distracted with the dark depths and mysteries concealed beneath. Gatsby comes to stand beside me, and because I wish for nothing more than to put my hands in his own, I return them once again to my windswept hair. I can feel Gatsby’s gaze as my hands burrow into my pockets. He squints slightly, a half-smile following the amused huff that he releases.

 

“What?” As times often before, I find myself in a state of slim bewilderment at the musings of the man who holds my affections. Without a word his careful hands creep meticulously through my disarranged hair; the foreign, yet painfully familiar, touch forces me to suppress a shiver, opting to absentmindedly lean into the amenity instead.

 

“Nick,” the tone in which Gatsby speaks causes my heart to beat quite quickly, and I blink. It is sweet, caring, affectionate... perhaps even loving- it holds a world of unspoken truths and heart wrenching opportunity. And in the decades of silence that follow, I hear only the pound of blood rushing through my veins. But perhaps it is only my imagination, for the words that follow still the beating of my heart. “You appear to be somewhat touch starved, perchance you’ll find a lady tonight who can change that.”

 

“A lady... yes.” I give a small nod, his hands falling to his sides, and revert back to the ocean of disappointment that surrounds. Gatsby bumps against my shoulder, as if in a half assed attempt to cheer me up, and though he does not move his arm from mine, it does not work. For a long span of time we stand together, arms brushing with every breath, a curtain of longing stifling me. When Gatsby moves away, I remain, keeping place as he guides the boat back to the dock. All the while, some distance away, I see the dim reflection of a green glow in the unsteady waters. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn away, focusing instead on the fluttering of Gatsby’s jacket in the wind, through my blurred vision.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick trigger warning for a panic attack near the end of this chapter. I went into decent detail, but not too, too much.
> 
> Also, yes, it may be exactly 1 am as I’m typing this out, and I may have to get up for work at 5:30, but I always get into my best writing flow late at night and don’t stop until I either pass out or finish- and this time I finished. So here you have the third chapter.

It is at the walkway to his mansion that we depart from one another. Gatsby offers, albeit a bit distractedly, an early invitation, that, to reasons I find escape myself, I decline. With every passing second I feel a growing dread for tonight, but the glimmer in Gatsby’s eyes keeps me from the consideration of avoiding the event.

“You will be coming tonight?” He asks for what must be the tenth time since our return.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Though my words are sincere, as in that moment I felt I would have done anything for Jay, my heart is not. He gives a small smile, curt nod, and claps me on the shoulder before turning away.

“See you tonight Old Sport.”

“See you tonight... Jay,” I mumble with a shaky sigh, briskly leaving to my own residence.  
There is not much to do as I bid my time. Restlessly I pace my bedroom, settling on one outfit for a small period, before deciding against the garb and changing again. Nothing feels right, nothing fits as it should. As time ticks away I feel a sort of nervousness sprouting. Its leaves tickle the inside of my stomach, branches wrapping through my organs. The sun has not quite begun to disappear, and yet the first of the cars arrive, and soon after, the music begins. As the driveway fills and night makes its appearance, I know that soon I must make my own. Changing one last time, I stay simple: a white button up under a black vest, and black pants. My hair is unsalvageable, a wind blown mess that I have no hope of conquering, only slightly taming as I comb it back.

The party is in full swing. Despite the crowd, more and more cars line the path, chock full of those from every ilk and corner of New York. And despite the crowd, I still manage to befall the sights of one Jordan Baker. She stares for a moment, then decides she won’t bite and saunters over.

“Nick,” she greets coolly, as if gauging my reaction with a shielded indifference.

“Jordan,” I nod politely, “you look lovely.” I remain as untelling as she, awaiting the first move.

“You look stiff and uncomfortable.” Her thin fingers make their way to my collar, unbuttoning the top three, “That’s better.”  
I shift slightly, eyeing those who pass to enter the mansion, “we should get off of these steps.”

“Nick Carraway, are you trying to get me alone?” Jordan raises her eyebrows. Though she is joking, I find myself unable to go along.

“No, we are simply in the way. Besides, I already have an eye for someone.” The words have left my tongue before I realize I am saying them.

“Do you now?” She asks, suddenly very intrigued by what I have to say.

“I, uh no... well, yes. But I am not going to say anymore on the subject.” She studies my face, then grabs my hand.

“Come on then. You need to loosen up.” Inside is rather loud, torturously so, as Jordan pulls me through the dense throng towards the back lawn. 

“Now then,” she murmurs once we have taken to a table filled with posh strangers, already brimming with expensive alcohol, “who, in all of New York, has managed to steal the fancy of the reclusive Nick Carraway?”

“I’m not reclusive,” I retort, leaning back to scan those in the vicinity.

“Well you certainly aren’t sociable,” she scoffs, sipping at the fluorescent drink in hand. “I bet you wouldn’t even be at this party unless insisted upon... Who do you propose it’s for anyways?”

“What do you mean?” I glance at her curiously.

“Before, all of Gatsby’s parties were to catch the attention of Daisy, but... whose eye do you suppose he’s trying to capture now? What mystery woman has caught our hosts fancy?”  
My heart twinges and throat fills with cotton; I hadn’t considered any reasoning behind Gatsby holding another extravagant party. I feel myself beginning to spiral in the chaos of it all, and, as the tears are building force, from the sea of faces emerges Gatsby, a worrisome look overtaking his otherwise welcoming expression. He shows visible relief upon approaching our table, slipping into the seat beside me. From my other side, Jordan remains silent, lips pursed slightly.

“Old Sport, I must admit I was afraid that you weren’t going to show.” His knee brushes mine from our proximity, hand resting on the table, unseemingly close to my own. There is a pause as he takes in the unusual chest exposure from my unbuttoned top.

“I told you I would be here,” I choke out, not quite loud enough.

“What?” He all but shouts, leaning so close I can feel his breath against my face. His eyes hold an intensity that startles me- he stares into my own so intently, and the way the stroboscopic lights cast flashing reflections makes their brilliance all the more captivating. I feel compelled to watch the colorful hues dance across his bare body, to see them form an ever-changing mirage on his soft skin and mesmerizing features. I open my mouth, but cannot speak, shaking the thoughts from my head as I move away. My face burns, a flush too dark to be able to blame on the alcohol. I am painfully aware of Jordan watching my every move. Her eyes flick between the two of us, widening as she releases an audible gasp, looking down with such ferocity we both turn to her. At that moment one of Gatsby’s butlers approaches, whispering into his ear as the music starts up again, louder than previous.

“Excuse me, I am afraid I must take this. I won’t be long.” Gatsby stands abruptly, and I am desperately aware of the fact that I do not want him to go. He steps back, eyes passing over my face as he readies to leave. In those couple of seconds I find that I cannot hide my disappointment. And in those moments Gatsby’s sees.

“Are you alright, Old Sport?” He asks over the upbeat music.

“Quite,” I yell back, hiding my dismay and the overwhelming feeling lapping at the back of my mind. He frowns, but offers a small nod as he is whisked away. I can feel the spiral returning, the music mixing with overbearing chatter from the guests, glasses clinking, and cigarette smoke clouding the air. A sharp pain clogs my throat, making it difficult to swallow and breath. From beside I hear the spoken realization of Jordan’s,

“You fancy Gatsby.” It is those three words that send me over the abyss. The utterance of my most private fears and desires that flares a panic signal in my brain. I am unable to even whisper an ‘excuse me’ as I scatter from the chair, nearly crashing over tables and into others in my flurry. My flight carries me away from the persistent pound of music and stuffy atmosphere of the lawn, to the desolate space between Gatsby’s garden and my property. As I approach my knees feel weak, dragging me to the soil and rooting me in spot. Tears blur my vision, creating a vulnerability to the shadows in the dark. My balled hands shake, pressing themselves into my hair as my body curls in on itself. Each breath is arduous, filtered by the cloth on the arms that hide my face. Time seems to slow, each uneven gasp taking years. I do not know how long I have been there when I hear a frightened voice calling into the night.

“Nick!” It overflows with desperation, a shrill panic not too far from my own. The sound of feet against the earth rapidly draws forth, halting instantly when in close range. A warm hand grasps my shoulder, quiet pants exhaling from the body kneeling beside me.

“Nick,” the voice murmurs, raw with emotion as I am encompassed by protective arms. “I need you to breathe.” The words are whispered, face burrowed in the side of my hair, hot breath tickling my ear. Arms still wrapped tightly around me, Gatsby moves a hand to one of mine, carefully unclenching it and entwining it in his own.

“Please, Nick, I need you to loosen your other hand. You’re going to hurt yourself... Please, just breathe for me. If you keep hyperventilating you’re going to pass out.” Gatsby nuzzles slightly into my hair, taking deep breaths and long exhales, silently encouraging me to follow his lead. Though his arms across my back and front, and his hand clutching my shoulder are tense from their tightness, his right hand is relaxed, index finger drawing gently lines into my knuckle.

We stay like that for most of fifteen minutes before I am able to match my breathing to his, and another twenty to stop the flow of tears. Even after my tenseness has left and I crumple into his arms, Gatsby does not let me go. He allows his grip to loosen, hand moving up and down my arm as with his finger against my hand. Even after the panic has drained and I am left empty, my hands still shake; and though I allow them to fall from my head, revealing my weary face, Gatsby still holds on. He does not look at me for some time, keeping his face buried in my unkempt hair. When he finally does lift his head, he releases my hand, wiping away any lingering tears I did not realize remained. He cups my face, closing his eyes as he rests against the side of my face: his forehead against my temple and nose, my cheek.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, lips brushing against my jaw. I swallow thickly, and barely nod.

“Y-yeah.” My voice is raspy, tired and frail. I pause to gather my question, “How did you...?”

“Some things from the military stick with you,” he responds quietly, “including little remnants of the battles.”  
Neither of us speaks again, not until my trembling is unnoticeable to those who do not look. Gatsby rises to his feet, helping me up with him, and slings an arm around my waist.

“I’m bringing you home,” he tells me, guiding along the inky trees until we reach my house. He does not leave me there, though, opening the door and bringing me up to my room. Settling me on my bed, he begins rifling through my drawers until content with what he finds. A sleepy haze has filled my existence, and I don’t find it within myself to fight, or get embarrassed, when Gatsby begins unbuttoning my vest, then shirt. He tugs the fabric loose from my waistband, eyes roaming my exposed chest as he signals me to lift my arms. Watching closely, I do as I’m told, allowing him to slip the thin fabric of a black tee shirt onto me.

“I think you can manage from here,” he mumbles, carding his fingers through my hair with a soft expression. He steps away, moving toward the door, “just call if you need me.”

“Jay,” I call hesitantly. He peeks his head through the doorway, “Thank you.”  
I see him smile sweetly, disappearing from the entry and to the stairs. I stay still for a second, letting out a long breath, then drop my pants to the floor and curl up under my sheets.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning is a haze of memories that linger on the edges of my mind, shrouded in mist and dewy with alcohol. Vague recollections shift in the shadows as I sit up, a tempest of nausea overtaking any attempts of remembering. My body collides with the cold bathroom floor, and the contents of my stomach with the toilet. An uncomfortable warmth encases my shaking body and each limb feels weak as movement retreats from my unwillful grasp. I close my eyes against the consequences of the previous nights decisions and fall back.  
The faded wallpaper feels as if the rutted surface of a granite rock, scratching against the exposed skin where my shirt has risen. Its gentle lilac shade provides no indication for the sandpaper purgatory that awaits. Though unpleasant, I find myself unable to escape its hold. The taste of bile lingers on my tongue, its repulsive flavor stinging my throat as I relinquish a groan- my only defense to the agony of this torturous reality. My eyes half-lidded, vision unfocused, when there enters into the blur a very disarrayed man. His shouting voice drags me from my early morning stupor, rumpled clothing rapidly approaching with each blink. Horror bubbles in my stomach, organs boiling at the sight of him who holds my affections.  
The fog filling my mind dissipates, swept away with the dread, as Gatsby’s form is processed. His often gelled hair is tousled, each golden strand soft with sleep, no longer crisped into a harsh perfection. His pants are creased, crumpled shirt unbuttoned to nothing underneath. I feel heat redden my face- the warmth that floods my senses now is comforting, and I feel myself softening into a puddle of mush at his current state; unable to stop the adoration that blossoms in my heart, or the yearning that causes my actions. He stands still above me, gazing down with an air of confusion.

“Old Sport are you alright? Your face is red, alarmingly so.” Gatsby kneels, sitting back on his heels as his knees brush the sides of my legs.

“No,” I croak out, throat cottony. My hand reaches out, outstretched towards Gatsby as his own to the green light that had held his hope for so long. His eyes flick to my hand as it rests against his chest, a curiosity overtaking his features.

“Nick?” His voice is so gentle, as if a word too loud would shatter my being. His skin is soft beneath my fingertips.

“Jay,” I whisper back, tracing my way up to the fading memory of a tragic time. My hand gains a slight tremor, ghosting over the stitched exit wound. He remains unmoving, utterly still as I graze the skin. I feel my emotions growing, but when I try to blink it back it comes frothing forward, spilling down my face. Gatsby meets my eyes and his hand encompasses mine, drawing it towards his chest where his heart beats calmly.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp out, head hanging as I find myself crumpling apart once again, “I thought you died. I thought- I thought I had… lost you.” There comes a tenderness against my cheek. For but a moment it stays, tracing to my neck before I am being pulled forward. Gently I collide with Gatsby, feeling his arms make home around my body. His words are soft, gentle as the touch that traces my back, as the unspoken thoughts lingering on my tongue. I do not move my head from his shoulder, nor do I attempt to meet his eyes, for I find that I cannot- body too filled with the need to declare something that I know must remain unsaid. Only to be whispered in the darkest of nights, entrenched in pounding music and champagne soaked lungs; in passing moments too chaotic for the truth to be heard. But now is different, now is quiet. Now is gentle, and soft. He is warm, careful about each movement, and each word.

“What’s wrong?” I make no move, no notion of response as I feel his head move, eyes watching. He awaits something that I am not sure I can give- an answer I dare not murmur. I am sure of something though… There is nothing in this world that I love more than Jay Gatsby. So effortlessly has he claimed a piece of me, and so effortlessly have I let him.

“I’m afraid,” I tell him. And it is the truth. I fear for the future of what is to come if I reveal what my heart has made so blatantly clear to my mind. I fear for if I utter the words so hastily plaguing my every moment, than I will lose what makes the world so bearable, I am terrified of losing Gatsby, but I fear that either way he will disappear. There will come along another Daisy and I will be left, heartbroken in despair as the very green light is ripped from my dock. But if I admit the truth that it took me so long to accept, and find no acceptance in return, than even still will I be devastated. I close my eyes, and I take in the scent of Gatsby one last time. When I pull away he let’s me go so easily.

“James Gatz… Jay Gatsby, there is something I need to tell you, and I am not sure how you will take it, but I cannot keep it in any longer.” Though my voice quivers, my eyes remain locked with his, “I am deeply drowning in affection for you, that is significantly steeped in romantic interests.”  
For once he appears at a loss of words, murmuring a startled,

“What?”

“Jay I like you romantically, really very in the least heterosexual way possible.”

“No, no I get that, I just…” He shakes his head slightly, eyes adverting to anywhere but mine. “I just need to process.” And he is standing, “I just need time to think. Old sport, Nick, I’m sorry.”  
And he is leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been six months since I last updated, and I can't promise that it wont be another six months before I post the next chapter. But I have some semblance of plan, and will begin writing asap. Thank you for all of the lovely comments over the course of this fanfic, you don't know how much they mean to me and how motivational they really are. Also, y'all leave seriously the best comments, some of them are so funny and sweet and make me so happy.  
> Catch ya at the next Gatsby sanctioned party.


	5. Chapter 5

Gatsby did not speak to me for two days. If in those days I held any shred of honesty it would admit that I was afraid. Fearful as I was of the consequence that weighted my words, I did not regret them. I had to be honest with Gatsby, and more so with myself. Though we held no contact, his mansion remained steadily busy. Day and night shipments were brought in, an array of staff ever-present through the branches that separated us. It is not until the third day, when I am moping on my overgrown lawn, the dewy grass gleaming in the mid-morning sun, that I am approached by a solemn-faced man. Without so much as a word he hands me an envelope with my name written in swirling gold lettering. The print inside is just as elegant; my eyes remain on the page, reading the formalities over and over and- I know that I will be going. The invitation feels heavy, holding possibilities beyond Gatsby’s green light, beyond the destructive nature of Daisy Buchanan, beyond the murky waters of a past James Gatz, and beyond the dust filled eyes of T.J Eckleburg. And as my heart clambers to my throat, as do I clamber back into my house.  
In the hours that follow I find a steady increase in my nervousness and I sift through multiple outfits- unable to settle my mind on particulars. The face in the mirror appears unfitting, as if it belongs to another, and my limbs do not belong to me either. They are a strangers, foreign and distant. This body is not my own, and though the black pants and ivory vest are familiar, a vague disposition taunts the back of my mind. But the time is late and already has the sun dipped below the horizon. WIth hesitance in every step I make my way to Gatsby, to his hulking mansion that sits oddly quiet and empty. Nobody is there to greet me at the door, only a slip of paper with careful folds and a single phrase, _“Follow the music, Old Sport.”_  
A gentle song drifts drearily in the absence as it’s melancholic tone guides me to a dim room. Through the open door I see candles, their flames flickering dangerously near the delicate petals of red tulips. The entirety of the room is filled with their rosy hue, and in the midst of the delicacy stands Gatsby. His suit is pale lavender, fitted in perfection to his frame. Though crisping with gel, his hair has been tousled, run through by nerves and anticipation. Gatsby’s eyebrows are creased, a subtle perplexion overtaking much of his demeanor. It is the way in which he had once awaited Daisy. The music comes drifting to a stop.

“Gatsby,” I murmur as I lean my body against the threshold. He looks up, a spark in his gentle eyes as they meet mine.

“Nick,” he calls back as if upon instinct, the hope in his voice reflecting that in my heart. He looks tentative, but smiles that wonderful smile nonetheless. “I may not have found you a nice lady,” he begins towards me, “but I hope that despite my impropriety, I may suffice.”  
Before me stands a man- a beautiful, unfortunate man of paradoxical wealth. He is vulnerable to an intimacy I had only dreamed of.

“I believe that you will more than suffice.”

“Then, may I have this dance?”

“Of course.” He takes my hand as if afraid of letting go. He leads me across the petal strewn floor, and the overwhelming sickly scent infiltrates my lungs each breath I take. Our fingers are entwined. I find that I am very aware of the slight pressure his hand creates on the small of my back.

“I am inclined to think that I may have some explaining to give in light of the situation,” he murmurs into the silence we have chosen to dance within.

“I am inclined to agree,” I whisper back, to which Gatsby offers an amused headshake.

“My feelings for Daisy had been misplaced, but given the circumstance I found myself further compelled to delve into her as a means of distraction. After meeting with the two of you, and more so getting to know you, I realized that I had developed quite a fondness, and a distasteful longing for an unrealistic past. Daisy no longer held my fancy and, I’ll admit, that scared me. I had been holding on to something for so long that letting go seemed terrifying. And yet… here I am, dancing with whom my affections took flight, and even though I have let go, I am still scared.” His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt and the expression of his face, so open, so vulnerable and honest causes my breath to catch.

“Scared of what?” I move my hand up to his neck, caressing his jaw with my thumb. His skin is smooth, emitting a subtle warmth.

“Of what people will say, of moving forward, o-of… of losing you. I cannot bear the thought of not having you with me.”

“Jay people will talk about everything, no matter how well you try to hide it. It is just what they do. But I am not going anywhere. No matter what they say you will not lose me.” He closes his eyes and gives in to the tempest that has long been brewing in his heart.  
When he pulls me close it is as if the ocean colliding with the land, an ever-shifting calamity reaching out and taking ahold of its grounding surface. And we are no longer a green light cast off in the hazy night, but something much, much more. We are a lighthouse, steadfast and certain, a guiding light rather than a dull flash of hope. His forehead against mine, eyes locked in a mutual understanding far beyond any semblance of words- I yearn to kiss him. But love is critical and time is crucial, and I know that after all he has braved, Jay Gatsby is not ready. But I am content to wait, to hold onto my beacon until he is alright enough to shine again. And so I smile, and close my eyes, and keep his body as close as I am able.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have it end here, or I could potentially write some more domestic chapter(s)? Give me some ideas/prompts and maybe I'll write it? Can't think of really where to go after this except a first kiss chapter.  
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck by me in the forever it has taken to write this hecking book and for all of the lovely comments. Y'all're truly the best.  
> <3


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